This blog provides advice to writers on their literary work.
See end of this post for links on these topics:
How can you get the full benefit of workshops? How can you work best with your mentor? What, when, and how should you publish?

Saturday, April 1, 2017

The Problem for a Writer of Having Too Many Talents and Interests

Many people in the arts have numerous talents and interests.
In addition to writing, you might enjoy quilting, or playing an instrument, or
you might be a good painter or dancer. In some ways it’s a blessing to enjoy
numerous arts, in some ways it’s a problem.

In my early twenties I studied many different arts and
crafts. I took classes and learned some skills from friends. I enrolled in a pottery class where I
tried to master the skill of knowing how a glaze would look after it was fired.
I sketched models from life endlessly, trying to perfect my technique with a
charcoal crayon. I even had a business with my friend Flip tying macramé purses and
chokers.

I was also writing and at the same time translating French poets during
this period, but my role models were artists who did not specialize in one art. I
admired William Blake, who created engravings to go with his poems, and DanteGabriel Rossetti, the Pre-Raphaelite artist who wrote poems to accompany his
paintings.

Rossetti's poem, "The Blessed Damozel," illustration by Kenneth Cox

Even though writing and literature excited me, like many
people in the arts, I didn’t want to be strapped down to one discipline. In my
case, this was partly because my father had been a widely published writer of
short stories and reviews, and I didn’t want to be measured against the
yardstick of his success.

At this time I was also taking classes in modern dance and
ballet at the gym of my college, working at the barre in not weather with sweat
gushing down my brow. (Some ballet teachers can be tougher than marine drill
sergeants!). I was making pretty decent progress, and being the only male in
most classes, I got a lot of attention.

Then one day, a new person entered the dance classes: Berat.
He was an engineering student from Turkey, and he had never had much formal
instruction in dance. Berat’s progress was amazing. He took every possible
class he could fit into the schedule of his engineering studies, always
arriving early or staying late to work in the mirror to check his form on the pliés. In a
few months, Berat had surpassed all the other students. He was a natural. One
day, Berat was gone. I asked the teacher what had happened to him. She said
Berat had moved to New York, where he had auditioned for a dance company that
was interested in hiring him, if he took a few more classes.

That made me pause. Yes, I was fairly good at modern dance,
pottery, macramé,life drawing. But was I progressing at a pace that would
allow me to make an original and professional contribution to the art, the kind
of pace Berat had set? In every case, I had to answer no. Except possibly in
writing.

Writing was the one art I was trying to avoid. But writing came
naturally to me. I had to work at it, and work incredibly hard, but I was continually
moving forward in my practice of the craft. I couldn’t say that about the other
arts I was dabbling in. I was spreading myself thin, and as a result, nothing I was doing in any art or craft had much depth.

I realized that I wanted to be an artist not just for
fun—though it was great fun when it went well, more fun than anything else I’d
done. I wanted to be an artist to make a contribution to the river of culture,
and even if that contribution was only a few drops, I wanted it to be the best I could
give. I saw that I would have to specialize to get good enough to make an
original contribution that might have a chance of mattering to others, not just to myself and a few friends.

Even within the literary arts, a writer has to specialize.
Yes, there are some authors who can write plays, poems, short stories, novels,
libretti, and more. But not many. Most of us have to specialize in order to get
good at a genre. Again, it’s partly what comes naturally, and partly what you want to work at.

I don’t know if Berat ever became a professional dancer in
New York. But I admire that he tried to make the grade, that he knew right away
that dance was the discipline he needed to focus on. That type of single-minded focus
doesn’t come easy to many creative people, who by nature like to experiment,. But that kind of focus often makes the difference between a dilettante and an artist.